Later on in the afternoon, Montgomery of the Sixth happened to be passing by the infirmary, when Fate, aided by a sudden gust of wind, blew a piece of paper at him. “Great Scott,” he observed, as his eye fell on the words “Ode to the College.” Montgomery, like Smith, was no expert in poetry. He had spent a wretched afternoon trying to hammer out something that would pass muster in the poem competition, but without the least success. There were four lines on the paper. Two more, and it would be a poem, and capable of being entered for the prize as such. The words “imposing pile,” with which the fragment in his hand began, took his fancy immensely. A poetic afflatus seized him, and in less than three hours he had added the necessary couplet,
How truly sweet it is for such as me
To gaze on thee.
“And dashed neat, too,” he said, with satisfaction, as he threw the manuscript into his drawer. “I don’t know whether ‘me’ shouldn’t be ‘I,’ but they’ll have to lump it. It’s a poem, anyhow, within the meaning of the act.” And he strolled off to a neighbour’s study to borrow a book.
Two nights afterwards, Morrison, also of the Sixth, was enjoying his usual during prep siesta in his study. A tap at the door roused him. Hastily seizing a lexicon, he assumed the attitude of the seeker after knowledge, and said, “Come in.” It was not the Housemaster, but Evans, Morrison’s fag, who entered with pride on his face and a piece of paper in his hand.
“I say,” he began, “you remember you told me to hunt up some tags for the poem. Will this do?”
Morrison took the paper with a judicial air. On it were the words:
Imposing pile, reared up ’midst pleasant grounds,
The scene of many a battle, lost or won,
At cricket or at football; whose red walls
Full many a sun has kissed ’ere day is done.
“That’s ripping, as far as it goes,” said Morrison. “Couldn’t be better. You’ll find some apples in that box. Better take a few. But look here,” with sudden suspicion, “I don’t believe you made all this up yourself. Did you?”
Evans finished selecting his apples before venturing on a reply. Then he blushed, as much as a member of the junior school is capable of blushing.
“Well,” he said, “I didn’t exactly. You see, you only told me to get the tags. You didn’t say how.”
“But how did you get hold of this? Whose is it?”
“Dunno. I found it in the field between the Pavilion and the infirmary.”
“Oh! well, it doesn’t matter much. They’re just what I wanted, which is the great thing. Thanks. Shut the door, will you?” Whereupon Evans retired, the richer by many apples, and Morrison resumed his siesta at the point where he had left off.
“Got that poem done yet?” said Smith to Reynolds, pouring out a cup of tea for the invalid on the following Sunday.
“Two lumps, please. No, not quite.”
“Great Caesar, man, when’ll it be ready, do you think? It’s got to go in tomorrow.”
“Well, I’m really frightfully sorry, but I got hold of a grand book. Ever read—?”
“Isn’t any of it done?” asked Smith.
“Only the first verse, I’m afraid. But, look here, you aren’t keen on getting the prize. Why not send in only the one verse? It makes a fairly decent poem.”
“Hum! Think the Old ’Un’ll pass it?”
“He’ll have to. There’s nothing in the rules about length. Here it is if you want it.”
“Thanks. I suppose it’ll be all right? So long! I must be off.”
The Headmaster, known to the world as the Rev. Arthur James Perceval, M.A., and to the School as the Old ’Un, was sitting at breakfast, stirring his coffee, with a look of marked perplexity upon his dignified face. This was not caused by the coffee, which was excellent, but by a letter which he held in his left hand.
“Hum!” he said. Then “Umph!” in a protesting tone, as if someone had pinched him. Finally, he gave vent to a long-drawn “Um-m-m,” in a deep bass. “Most extraordinary. Really, most extraordinary. Exceedingly. Yes. Um. Very.” He took a sip of coffee.
“My dear,” said he, suddenly. Mrs. Perceval started violently. She had been sketching out in her mind a little dinner, and wondering whether the cook would be equal to it.
“Yes,” she said.
“My dear, this is a very extraordinary communication. Exceedingly so. Yes, very.”
“Who is it from?”
Mr. Perceval shuddered. He was a purist in speech. “From whom, you should say. It is from Mr. Wells, a great College friend of mine. I—ah—submitted to him for examination the poems sent in for the Sixth Form Prize. He writes in a very flippant style. I must say, very flippant. This is his letter:—‘Dear Jimmy (really, really, he should remember that we are not so young as we were); dear—ahem—Jimmy. The poems to hand. I have read them, and am writing this from my sickbed. The doctor tells me I may pull through even yet. There was only one any good at all, that was Rogers’s, which, though—er—squiffy (tut!) in parts, was a long way better than any of the others. But the most taking part of the whole programme was afforded by the three comedians, whose efforts I enclose. You will notice that each begins with exactly the same four lines. Of course, I deprecate cribbing, but you really can’t help admiring this sort of thing. There is a reckless daring about it which is simply fascinating. A horrible thought—have they been pulling your dignified leg? By the way, do you remember’—the rest of the letter is—er—on different matters.”
“James! How extraordinary!”
“Um, yes. I am reluctant to suspect—er—collusion, but really here there can be no doubt. No doubt at all. No.”
“Unless,” began Mrs. Perceval,
